Page 40 of Good Days Bad Days
My phone buzzes. Was he watching at home right now, remembering that cold fall day when our marriage still felt like a fairy tale? I can hardly stand to look at the screen.
Cameron:Dinner? Next week?
Cameron—again. I curse Lacey every time he makes this request, not because I don’t like the guy or find him creepy, but because I do like him, and I don’t know how to feel about that. But why should I keep dodging him? Why shouldn’t I give Cam a chance when I can’t seem to get myself to put my wedding ring back on? I find every reason to leave my finger bare—because of the gloves we have to wear during cleanup or the number of times I wash my hands. But really, it’s because it’s safer this way. Without the ring on, I have plenty of options instead of only one where I give in and forgive Ian.
The phone is cool and heavy after the tactile experience of holding my mom’s book and turning its pages. I touch the screen and type a message and hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Charlie:How about tomorrow?
I’ve never been to Janesville, Wisconsin, but the more I learn about my parents, the more significant this area seems to be to their history. Cam offered to make the hour drive to Lake Geneva, but I’m happy to have a reason to visit. I suggested meeting at Ike’s Diner, the one Betty brought up during my last visit, after discovering it’s still open, but Cam said it closes at three on weekends.
So instead, we’re meeting at an upscale spot near the Rock River for an early dinner. It’s a quarter of a mile from the address on my mom’s ID for WQRX, where my parents met and fell in love. As strange as it is to think of my parents falling in love—it must be true. They’ve stayed together all these years despite my mother’s complex personality and my dad’s ghostlike nature. I mean, I couldn’t make it past six years with Ricky and he’s a totally stable, nice guy. Although a nice guy who didn’t really want a wife with a career in the public eye.
“I want a quiet life with you and Olivia, a nice little house somewhere with a little land and possibly some animals ...”
“A farm?” I shouted, slamming my hand against the table. “Like aGreen Acreskind of a thing?”
Ricky shushed me. I’d just finished the nighttime routine with three-year-old Olivia—bath, singing songs, and one book to get her droopy eyed enough that I could sneak out of her toddler bed and meet my husband in the dining room for “a talk.” That’s what he called it—a talk—but I actually knew it wasThetalk, the one that would change it all.
I’d been offered a segment onThe Today Show. We’d have to move to New York, and Ricky would have to change jobs or stay home with Olivia so I could make the 5:30 a.m. call time.
He’d put up with my dreams and my ambition when they were still aspirational in nature, but when it came to red-eye flights, days orweeks away on business trips, and half the bed bare—his tune changed. He wanted no part of it all.
What should’ve been the best event of my life turned into the worst since I’d left my parents’ house fifteen years earlier, and my hope of giving my daughter the family I never had died on the vine. I wasn’t willing to give up my career, and Ricky wasn’t willing to give up his kinda-out-of-nowhere farm dream either. So, Olivia learned how to move between houses, how to pack a bag, how to be independent and flexible—how to form her life around her parents’ dreams.
Maybe all parents do the same thing to their children in their own way. That’s why it’s comforting to think of my parents as being deeply in love because people who are in love often have tunnel vision.
It’s like the time I found my dad watching a news segment about the Gulf War, helicopters crossing the screen and tears in my dad’s eyes. His brother died in Vietnam, my mom explained, pulling me away from the sight of my father crying on the couch. She gave me a glass of milk and one of the cookies she’d baked back when we still had a functional kitchen, and then left me there with a coloring book while she delivered the same treat to my dad.
When she didn’t come back, I snuck into the den and found the television off, a record playing softly, and my mom’s head lying sweetly in his lap as he ran his fingers through her hair. My dad peeked at me through half-opened lids and placed a finger over his lips. I dashed back into the kitchen, running away from witnessing my parents’ humanness living just beneath the surface of their parental varnish. They seem to love each other, deeply. And maybe if they didn’t lovemepassionately I could blame it on them loving each other passionately, or at least that’s the narrative I prefer. I only wish there wasn’t still a little child inside of me longing to be loved in the same protective way.
Another turn and I’m crossing over a wide latte-colored river on a long bridge with arched cutouts on the cement barrier rails trailing down each side. The next right takes me into the town of Janesville. The Ace Hardware sign looks original. Driving under an arch reading“Festival Street,” I spot three more bridges to my right, two for cars and one for pedestrians.
But the most breathtaking sight of all are the large murals decorating the sides of the brick buildings, bringing life to the worn and weathered storefronts. This had once been a bustling town, but now, empty stores and several bare lots are interspersed with businesses, restaurants, and specialty shops. I find myself wanting to know the history of each and every building, to step inside and imagine who first walked their halls.
After driving across another bridge and then past a large official-looking building and a community pavilion, I pull into a spot in front of the restaurant’s large plate glass window. My phone rings. I check the name.
This is a call I can’t ignore.
“Hey, Alex,” I say. Alex McNamara. My boss. Everyone’s boss. The head of HFN, the man who greenlitHere’s Hoping, the show that led to my romance with Ian, and thenSecond Chance Renovation. I only hear from him on the best and worst of occasions. And he’s calling my personal number on a Saturday—great.
“Hi, Charlie. Hope this isn’t a bad time.”
Well, yes it is, Alex, but I can’t really say that, can I?
“Not at all. I always have time for you,” I schmooze, because what else am I supposed to do with someone who holds my whole family’s livelihood in his hands. He’s so rich he owns a town in Montana along with an active silver mine where half of the residents work. The man is completely used to everyone telling him yes all the time. I hate these kinds of meetings.
“Good. Good. Well, now, I’ve heard you’ve had some family things going on, and I’m not trying to pry, but Karen and I have been talking ...” Karen Terry, head of World Window, the production company forSecond Chance Renovation. What the hell does Karen think she knows about my family life? Though it’s possible Ian went to her about my lack of communication. A stone drops in my stomach. Did the tabloidscatch wind of Ian’s messages or even worse—TikTok? I realize I’ve lost track of what Alex is saying.
“... Dino’s been doing some work for ya and we were thinking—what about a crossover episode?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my catastrophizing brain so far down a “we’re getting canceled” scenario that I can hardly catch up to reality. “A—what?”
“A crossover episode withSqueaky CleanandSecond Chance. Karen came up with a great proposal, and we all think you and Ian with Dino and Tina, we think that’d be amazing. Plus, the family angle and the hoarding element—that’d be a ratings bonanza right there.” The rock in my stomach turns slimy, like it’s been sitting in the nearby Rock River for a century.
“No.” The response bursts out of me. No one says no to Alex McNamara and yet here I am—saying no. This feels awful.
Alex is silent on the other side of the phone, and I see Cam walk into the restaurant without noticing me in the car. His hair is neatly combed, his beard trimmed close to his skin, and he’s wearing a light spring jacket and dark jeans, washed out at the thighs and butt. He’s perfectly on time, and I wish I’d gone inside and left my phone in the car and missed this call.
